


Lovebug

by ohmybgosh



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy is sick, Fluff, Fluff with Angst, Harringrove for Raices, and while i was listening to instrumental covers of boybands, anxiety steve, i LOVE writing steve's parents, i wrote this after i read pride and prejudice again, so its rather dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:27:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmybgosh/pseuds/ohmybgosh
Summary: Billy gets a cold





	Lovebug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettyboyporter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/gifts).

> For tracy, thank you so much for being a part of this movement! I delighted to write this for you and I hope you like it <3

“Hello?” 

Mrs. Harrington’s delicate voice carried through the entryway, gliding down the front hall and into the living room, drifting over Mr. Harrington’s hunched shoulders and getting lost in the blur of his fingers, his pale hands which danced over the piano keys. 

Their son, Steve, lying on the couch, had an arm draped over his eyes, and never heard the phone on the wall in the hall ring, nor his mother’s gentle answer, not over the classics. 

Mr. Harrington owned his own business, real estate, and wore suits ironed professionally, and parted his hair and combed his mustache the same way every day. He looked sharp and stern, and he was, quite certainly. Steve almost always avoided his father when he was home. 

But not when he played. The lines in his face, frowns at the corners of his mouth and creases between his eyes, faded when he took to the piano. The lines that built up over the years, that barely succeeded when he looked at his wife or his son, would soften when he dusted off the keys. 

Steve stayed in the room when his dad played the piano. He snuck looks at him from behind his hand, a book he wasn’t reading, and watched as the tension in his tense father teetered and tapered off. 

His mom would do the same. After a terse dinner the small family, too small for the vast home, gathered in the living room. Most often, his father sat in the leather armchair with a glass of scotch and read the paper, or with a glass of burgundy and watched the television. His mom sat on one end of the couch, thin limbs pulled in close, sipping a glass of wine and reading a book or occasionally knitting. Steve sat on the other end of the couch, worrying his nails with his teeth, watching the clock until an appropriate amount of time had passed and he could excuse himself to his room on account of homework or early practice. These days, though, post highschool, he didn’t have those excuses, and more often than not his father would narrow his eyes at Steve from the rim of his glass, disapproving that his son was still sitting with him and not at college. 

But on the nights his dad played, he and his mom stayed in the room. She didn’t bother to read, simply draped an arm over the back of the couch and watched her husband with a wistful fascination. 

This particular evening, she got up when the phone rang, blinking as if from a daze, and tiptoed to the telephone, leaving her untouched glass of wine atop the crystal coaster on the coffee table. Steve sunk down on the cushions in her wake and closed his eyes. 

He didn’t hear her call his name until his dad slowed, taking one hand off the keys to take a sip of scotch. A low chord echoed through the huge house, and his mom’s voice dropped to harmonize with it. 

“Steve?” she murmured.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes. 

One small hand covered the receiver, the other reached out for him, beckoningly him over. 

His dad set the glass down with a  _ clink _ , flexed his fingers, and started again, a slow, melancholy hymn this time, one Steve thought he remembered from church, back when they used to put in enough effort as a family to go together. Now, just his mom went on special occasions. 

Steve stood and stepped carefully across the hardwood floor. 

He took the phone from his mom, who smiled at him and ran a hand through his hair as she passed. Steve watched her go, gliding into the living room, pausing to place a hand on his dad’s shoulder, lean in to kiss his cheek. 

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his parents show affection, but he knew it must’ve been a night like this. 

He pressed the phone to his ear and turned away. 

“Hello?”

“Harrington.”

“Billy?” 

Steve stepped further down the hall and towards the front door, as far as the cord would allow him. 

“No, it’s Joe Dimaggio. ‘Course it’s me.” 

“Sorry,” Steve chuckled. “You sound different.”

“Over the phone, yeah.”

“No, I mean, well,  _ yeah  _ over the phone, but different in, uh, in general.”

“Ooookay, Harrington.” Billy laughed; it turned into a cough and Steve pressed the phone so that it nearly crushed his ear, knuckles going white in his grip.

“Are you sick?”

“No!” Billy sniffled. 

“You sound sick. Should I come over? I’m coming over.” Steve searched the front hall for his sneakers, the cord straining. 

“I’m not,” Billy sighed. “I’m fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

Steve stopped, heart skipping a beat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Billy snorted, or perhaps blew his nose; Steve couldn’t tell. “I just, just didn’t see you today. And wanted to say hey...I mean - I don’t know. I’m sorry I called.”

Even through the mucus, which Steve was certain was there, and through the phone line, he could hear the frown in Billy’s voice. That frown, lips thinning, scowl on his face and shoulders hunching - all of which meant shutting down. A temper tantrum, Robin called it, when Steve confided in her. A coping mechanism, Nancy offered, after Robin, and went on to say that Steve should be more sensitive. 

Steve thought he was sensitive enough - Robin agreed and punched his shoulder to demonstrate when he confided in her, after Nancy. 

He couldn’t help it though. He worried, too much, both his friends agreed, and he couldn’t help but think that when Billy turned away from Steve and stayed quiet that he’d never speak to Steve again. Or that he’d lose Billy,  _ again _ , and this time he wouldn’t come back and Billy would be alone and thinking that Steve was also sorry he called, that Steve didn’t want to hear from him, and that Steve’s heart didn’t skip a beat when he thought Billy was hurting or when Billy just looked at him at all. 

_ Don’t make assumptions, _ he could hear Nancy.  _ Just ask him, communication is key. How do you think Jonathan and I have been dealing with the distance? _

_ Breathe, dingus _ , Robin would say, and steal a cigarette from his mouth or throw something at his head.  _ You’re gonna be fine.  _

“I do,” Steve said breathlessly, finding his sneakers underneath his father’s suit coat. He stooped down and pulled them on, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear. “I mean, shit. Don’t be sorry. I want to hear from you - I’m happy you called.” 

Shoes on, he straightened, holding the phone to his ear and running his hand through his hair. 

“Can I come over?”

Silence. 

“Billy?”

“My dad’s here.” 

“Oh,” Steve said quietly, heart sinking. 

“Can you,” Billy paused, something covered the phone and Steve heard muffled coughing for several seconds.

“Sorry.” Billy returned, sniffling. “Can you park down the block? I can leave my window open. I mean, if you want to. But it’s ok, if you don’t.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Steve said quickly, beaming. 

“Move it or lose it, Harrington.”

Heart thumping embarrassingly fast, Steve hung up the phone. He caught his mom’s eye and she tilted her head at him. 

“Friends,” he mouthed, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the door. 

“Where?” she shrugged at him. 

“Robin.” 

She smiled, nodded and waved him off. 

She liked Robin, who came for dinner every now and then, and who Steve had a pact with - she would be his cover, and he would always be hers. His mom thought they were dating, or almost, but he never said anything to deter her. It was better that than the alternative.

With a backwards glance at his dad, still folded over the piano, eyes closed and looking peaceful, Steve stepped out of the house, easing the front door closed as quietly as he could. 

He stood for a minute and breathed in sharply. The night bled dark and thick, his eyes took too long to adjust and his throat closed on instinct. A few more steps and he’d trigger the motion lights; his car was only a dash down the driveway. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath and fought against his better judgement and closed his eyes. You’re ok,  _ you’re gonna be fine. _

He took another deep breath. The air stung his nostrils, chilly, and smelled like autumn, like cold dew drops and dying leaves. It was mid-October, nine months since Billy, two without him, and these last two with. 

Crickets still chriped; it wasn’t cold enough for them, not yet, and faintly he heard his dad’s music from the safety of his house. 

He sucked in again, tasting merlot from dinner on his tongue, and opened his eyes. He jumped down the front steps, blinking when the lights flooded the driveway, and fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocking his new car and hopping in. 

The night scared him, especially driving at night, the darkness and the uncertainty beyond the reach of the headlights, but he drove anyway, breathing deeply and thinking of Billy alone in his bed. 

He parked far down the street. His tires skidded along the shoulder, sputtering gravel, and he pulled forward until his car was hidden behind a thicket of thinning trees beside the road. He cut the engine, climbed out, took another deep breath, and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking quickly down the street to Billy’s driveway with his head down. 

He stopped at the end of the Hargrove driveway, toes of his sneakers teetering. The house was small, too small for the size of the grief and anger that wallowed within it, and the tall trees at the back of the house, beyond the property, loomed like shadows against the dark skyline. 

He shivered. He didn’t like coming here; he couldn’t help wondering what Billy felt when he was trapped in his own body which had turned foreign, feet dragging him to this familiar place. 

He didn’t like having Billy at his place either. Bad memories clung to them like burrs stuck in your fleeces and cottons from a bumble through the brambles. 

Steve started up the driveway, breaking into a jog when the wind picked up and the leaves rustled. He cut across the browning lawn and ran as quietly as he could to Billy’s window. The light inside was dim, from the lamp on the bedside table, and it painted the dead grass yellow. 

He tapped the window lightly through a hole in the screen. The blinds were almost all the way shut, but a dark shape sat upright in a flash, one finger pushing apart the blinds, two blue eyes peeking warily at him before the blinds snapped shut and were drawn, the window pushed open with difficulty and then the screen. 

Steve climbed in, scrambling up the side of the house and thanking God that Billy lived in a one story house. He pushed his way through the sill and flopped onto the bed.

Billy pulled his legs close to his chest to avoid being squished. Steve sat up and pulled the window closed, brushed a cobweb from his hair. 

“Hey,” he said breathlessly. 

Billy smiled at him. “Hey you.” 

Purple smudged beneath his eyes, his nose blushed pink, his lips chapped, and skin pale. A box of tissues sat beside the lamp on the table, and a glass of water, half-full. 

Billy looked thin, not as thin as he had when he came back, but thin still. 

He sniffed. “It’s just a cold, Harrington. I’m fine.”

“Owens said -” Steve began. 

“So I’ll drink orange juice.” Billy waved him off. He coughed into his elbow, eyes shutting tight as if in pain. 

He lay down, stretching his legs out as far as he could on the twin-sized mattress. He patted the spot beside him.

“Your immune system -” Steve tried again. 

Billy closed his eyes again and sighed. “M’fine, Steve.”

“What can I do?” Steve murmured. He placed the back of his hand against Billy’s forehead; it felt warm. 

“Lie down,” Billy breathed. 

Steve did, toeing his sneakers off the end of the bed. He lay still for a minute, mind racing, and then propped himself up on his elbows. 

“Did you at least check your temperature?” he whispered. 

Billy frowned into the pillow. 

“Steve,” he groaned. “Don’t. I’m tired.”

“Sorry.” Steve lay back down, rolling onto his back and blinking at the ceiling. He lifted a hand and chewed on his thumbnail. 

“I just,” he started again; he hated himself but he couldn’t keep it down. “I just worry about you.”

Billy opened his eyes slowly, and they teared up, but Steve thought it must be the virus. 

Billy sniffled, and that must’ve been the virus too. He swallowed, seemed as though he would say something, then coughed. 

“Can you, um, grab the blanket?” 

Steve jolted up and grabbed the worn blanket from the foot of the bed, pulling it over the two of them and sinking back down onto the creaky bed. 

Billy slid his hand under Steve’s shirt; he shivered on instinct, but Billy’s skin was warm, clammy. 

Billy scooted closer and pressed his cheek to Steve’s chest, his short and scruffy hair tickling Steve’s chin. 

“Thanks,” he whispered. 

Steve smiled and wrapped his arms around him, kissing the top of his head. He closed his eyes and focused on Billy’s breathing, warm and sick but sweet against Steve’s skin; he matched it with his own, felt Billy rise and fall on his chest. 

He didn’t like this bed, this room. Bad things happened here.

It wasn’t all bad, though. They found new places, Steve’s new car - just the two of them, the Video Store with Robin, the Henderson’s living room floor while Dustin and his mom taught them to play Rummy, the Arcade with Max and Lucas and a reluctant Erica. 

And this place - in between Steve’s arms, their breathing in tandem, Billy warm and real against his skin - this was a good place. 

He could find it again. He knew he could; wherever Billy would be, he could find this place. 


End file.
